Saturday, 20 July 2013
Terrified weather forecasters barricaded themselves inside the Met Office’s Devon castle as the fickle population of the United Kingdom suddenly turned against them after deciding that the weather they clamoured for daily for two years isn’t really what they wanted after all.
“Oo arr,” explained furious raw-skinned Chantelle Swineherd, as she impaled a rain gauge on her pitchfork.
“O bugger,” agreed sweat-drenched Kyle Silage, reversing his tractor over an Audi in a reserved parking space.
As the heat from the supercomputers they get every year builds up due to hurriedly-closed windows and ventilation pipes choked with irate peasants trying to crawl in, the besieged meteorologists are expected to be roasted alive in their beleaguered fortress at around 3pm.
Friday, 19 July 2013
Thursday, 18 July 2013
Wednesday, 17 July 2013
A fish has said people should eat Prince Charles without “worry” as royal stock recovers around the UK thanks to a "new dawn" in the royal baby industry.
|Stand by for a battering|
“Until quite recently, thanks to Andy selling tanks to murderers, Edward churning out shite documentaries about his own family, the Queen getting caught trying to blag a heating allowance for all her palaces and Philip on a mission to start World War III, it looked like the stock of the royal family was rapidly approaching zero,” the cod explained to incredulous fishermen in Brixham, Devon.
But I see from recent reports that the Duchess of Cambridge is about to drop a sprog, experiments to mount Zara Phillips have finally succeeded and one day they might even get some bird in a room with the ginger bastard long enough for him to work out what needs to be done. Because of these efforts, these iconic leeches are providing sufficient headlines to improve their stock through sheer weight of verbiage.”
The Prince’s Self Sustainability Unit has been helping the royals to work with local and national newspapers, and even Nicholas Witchell, to ensure that they can keep the lifestyle to which they are accustomed while maintaining a viable media profile.
The fish said princes are able to remain nobs in the long term and even for the next generation as long as their stock is protected, as well as providing healthy column inches, preserving tabloid sales and maintaining the illusion that they are in some way relevant.
“Sponging - at least, for those who have inherited incredible wealth - is in fact increasingly witnessing hints of a new dawn,” it said. “Or whatever damned silly name Wills and Kate pull out of a hat.”
Monday, 15 July 2013
Example of Play
White is trumps.
Player 1 is hiding a winning 3-5-7 combination. Player 2 appears to play the black Knave and is promptly Aced by Player 1, who claims that Player 2 was about to make an illegal play for his 3-5-7.
Player 2 cashes in his chips, and is out of the game.
At this point the dealer intervenes, suspecting some minor breach of etiquette. Player 1 surrenders the 3-5-7.
The black Knave's play is adjudicated to be illegal.
All players of all other games now put their 2d in.
The house intervenes, and upholds the decision. White is still trumps.
Players with no stake whatsoever in the game now join in.
Kings which were previously beaten are now back in play.
Kings which were previously beaten are now back in play.
Pool cues are wild.
Player 1 asks for his 3-5-7 back, explaining that he may well need it.
Sunday, 14 July 2013
An Entirely Non-Magical Murder Mystery
by Jake A. Rolling-Norelation
As he scanned the pages of Private Eye, the well-known magazine for detectives looking for work, looking for work, heroic former-soldier-turned-private-investigator Action Mann suddenly jumped out of his chair excitedly, momentarily forgetting that he’d had a leg blown heroically off during a tour of Afghanistan with the Royal British Army.
“Wow, brilliant!” he exclaimed as he picked himself up off the floor of his low-rent office squeezed between the platforms of Euston Station. He re-read the advert out loud for the benefit of anyone who might be wondering what he was so excited about. “It says here: ‘Mystery at London Manor – Police Baffled!'”
“I’m off to Scotland Yard!” he added, as he hopped over to the hatstand, donned his trench-coat and trilby and caught the train to Scotland Yard.
“I’m Action Mann and I want to see the detective in charge of the London Manor Murder, sergeant,” Action Mann told the desk sergeant, whose name was Dixon, at the desk of Scotland Yard police station.
“Whom shall I say is calling, sir?” asked Sergeant Dixon, politely.
“I told you that three lines ago,” snapped Action Mann, impatiently.
“Right you are, sir,” agreed Dixon the desk sergeant, agreeably.
It wasn’t long before Action Mann, private detective and wounded war hero, was bouncing his way into the office of Superchief Detective Intendant Foyle.
“Frankly, Mann, I don’t mind telling you this London Manor case has got me stumped and no mistake,” Foyle told the monopod of mystery with his usual frankness. “Seems a young model by name of Claudia Klum committed suicide and made it look like murder, but we suspect it may be the other way round. She was wearing a sixties-inspired Alexa Chung kimono in pop-art check over snugly form-fitting lingerie by Marlies Dekkers and a pair of comfy yet cool Haflinger slippers, and the top of her head was all over the ceiling. Any ideas?”
Action Mann turned it over in his troubled mind, struggling to suppress recurring traumatic images of his leg flying off into the middle distance. Through the red mist of pain, a shrewd question pushed itself to the forefront of his whirling thoughts.
“Were there any witnesses?” he shouted, cleverly.
[continues for 994pages]